The wharf is like the season's face
It marks the time, the coming and
The going witness the breeze dive
To kiss the expectant waves,
Or the wind howl to shake the complacent
Crests, the gray iron boat approaches
As a plundering heap.
Motor launches are dwarfed
The yawning mouth of a naval boat
Crippled now along the solidness
Of baked earth and trampled land.
The men in green are lined up against
A backdrop of steel and heavy veil,
Strange arrivals with neither feast
Nor hometown yearning appeased.
A town watches with
And seeks the law in young men's brows
So much flesh and so many rifles
Spark an air as that might scare
The cooing doves, the question asked
Of why so much authority cannot
Bring justice to a dead man's bones
And law into the civil homes.